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Lately, a crippling fear had gripped Valerie that Kate, fueled by teenage drama, would emancipate herself and go live with that woman. She recognized the irrationality of it, but Kate had grown so moody, so mysterious. Did she really even know her daughter anymore? Valerie took a sip of her coffee and looked around her condo. She’d splurged on cheap imitations of the home decor found inside Elise’s mansion, desperate to create a place her daughter would want to stay. But between the carefully arranged picture frames and the artfully tossed blankets, she could still sense it. The emptiness of the space. The void in her life. She glanced at her watch. If they left immediately, she could drop Kate off at school and be only ten minutes late. We need to leave now, Valerie texted. The phone announced the message had been delivered and then read, yet her daughter still failed to appear. 3 Last night, Valerie had suggested she take the bus. Just this once. Kate’s mouth had hinged open in complete horror. Nobody rides the bus to school. Kate’s declaration had cut through the air like a knife. It was hard to compete with those kinds of mothers, the kind who didn’t have to work and could drive their kids to school, no matter how long it took to fix their hair in the morning. Kate spoke of her friends’ mothers with such blatant admiration, Valerie felt coated in thick shame, like she was doing something wrong. Motherhood was a never-ending simmering pot of guilt. She’d acquiesced and said she’d drive her to school. She’d never be like the dance moms, ever-present and doting, but Kate would have to see that she was trying. Five endless minutes passed before she charged down the hallway. She imagined opening the door, tapping her watch, saying, “My meeting?” It would be comforting to see Kate’s eyes widen in realization of her mistake and maybe, if the universe were gracious, her daughter would apologize and race out the door. As Valerie approached the bedroom, Kate’s voice fluttered into the air. On her cell, most likely FaceTiming a friend so they could critique each other’s outfits. She clenched her hand into a fist, raised to knock. “Please.” Kate’s voice, heavy on the sarcasm. “Mom’s never there. She doesn’t give a crap.” Valerie sucked in a breath. A knee to the gut. She blinked back tears, slinked away before she was caught. She sat back down in the kitchen chair and waited, wondering how long it would be until her child left her. Just like everyone else. A few minutes later, Kate emerged, backpack slung across her shoulder, hair pulled high into a topknot. “Ready?” As if it were just a typical morning. She flashed a casual smile, wide and false. Stabbing Valerie’s heart. 4 All day at the hospital, Kate’s words swarmed in Valerie’s head. As she instructed her laboring patients to take quick, short breaths, her inner voice chanted: She. Doesn’t. Give. A. Crap. Her best friend, Jazmin, eyed her with suspicion as they left new parents with their babies washed and swaddled. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be flying high after getting that raise.” “Yeah. That was a surprise.” Valerie raced through the staff lounge toward her locker. “Nothing’s wrong; I just need to hit the road.” “Oh.” Jazmin brightened. “Big date?” As if. “Absolutely. That hot husband decided to dump his wife and newborn and take me out for tacos and margaritas.” Jazmin chuckled. “The butt on that one, right? But seriously, where are you off to?” “Dance.” “I thought Kate’s class ended at seven? We’ve got time. Let’s grab a quick bite.” Sure, she’d much rather hang out with Jazmin than sit in the stuffy dance studio. But that was the problem. If she were a good mother, if she gave a crap, she’d want to go. Even if she didn’t understand it—the jazz, tap, ballet, contemporary all smeared together into one big blur. But apparently, each genre was unique. And Elise, expert on all things dance, quietly mocked her ignorance with each not-so-subtle glance at her friends and a barely perceptible eye roll. Valerie massaged the tension creeping up her neck. “I want to watch Kate practice.” “Oh my God, why?” Jazmin grimaced. “Oh no. They’ve gotten to you. The hysterical studio moms. They’ve invited you to wear a bedazzled Dance Moms T-shirt and sit on the bench with them, bouncing with every move their kid makes.” She did a theatrical impression, swaying and gasping as she pretend-watched a performance. “Look at her feet! So quick and light and elegant! She’s going to be a star!” Valerie laughed. “Actually, I’m going to silently gloat while snapping pictures for later braggy posts on social media: OMG! Kate finally nailed her routine! #challengingmoves #lovemygirl #dancemom.” 5 Jazmin winced. “Gross.” “I know. But for once, I don’t want to be the only one who shows up right at the end.” “Why?” Jazmin pulled on her puffer coat, more suited for Alaska than Atlanta. A stir of vulnerability swirled in Valerie’s stomach. Just thinking about what Kate said made her queasy. “What?” Jazmin looked genuinely concerned, so Valerie told her everything. Jazmin leaned against the heavy door to the parking deck. “Val.” Her voice took on the compassion she reserved for her patients, and that made Valerie want to cry. “It’s not true. You’re a great mother. Everyone knows how much you love Kate.” She tried to smile appreciatively, but instead, her lips did a weird twitch. “I’m just not the kind of mother who gives a crap enough to watch her lessons.” “Yeah, because you have more pressing things to do—like a job—that pays for all those classes, by the way.” “Well, if I had a better job, like Colette’s father, Kate wouldn’t have to clean the studio to offset the tuition.” Just another division. Kate never complained, but Valerie could feel the slump of her daughter’s shoulders as they pulled up to the empty building on Saturday mornings. Jazmin pushed open the steel door, and a gust of wind swirled up and smacked them in the face. “So, what happened? Did you tell her you overheard what she said?” “I pretended like I didn’t. I don’t know how to act around her anymore.” They stopped in front of Valerie’s ten-year-old silver Corolla. “The other day, I had to resort to changing the Netflix password just so she’d come out of her bedroom. She spends so much time cooped up in there, who knows what she’s doing.” “If I learned anything after ten years in pediatrics, it’s that teenagers are hard,” Jazmin said. “They’re irrational and impulsive. Their brains aren’t fully developed. They make stupid decisions.” 6 Valerie paused. She knew Jazmin was referring to Kate’s harsh words, but suddenly, Valerie wondered: Was her daughter irrational and impulsive about other things? Surely Kate wasn’t doing anything disturbing, nothing dangerous. Not like her father. A pit of panic descended. “Don’t worry. Kate’s fine,” Jazmin said. But the idea was already out there, like a foreboding. Valerie said goodbye, climbed into her car, and accelerated onto the highway. Immediately, she slammed to a heart-pounding standstill, stuck in the middle of a traffic jam, trapped, unable to get to Kate, like in a bad dream. She recalled how she’d been plagued with nightmares when Kate was an infant. She’d bolt upright in bed, convinced she’d left the baby in the hot car, still strapped in the car seat. Or she’d awaken thinking she’d lost her grip on the stroller, that Kate had careened down a steep embankment. Once, horrifically, she’d dreamed a man was at the door with a gun, so she’d thrown the baby on a roasting pan and slid her into the oven. That last nightmare had sent her running through the doors of Suzanne Crowell, PhD, clinical psychologist, who’d reassured her that she was simply overtired, overworked, and overly concerned as most new mothers are, single parents especially. “Not to worry!” the counselor had said. “I’m not a terrible mother?” Valerie’s voice had been strangled with tears. “Oh no,” Dr. Crowell had reassured her. “Quite the opposite. It shows what a good mother you are. How hard you’re trying to protect her.”
